


Maybe We Could Get To Know Each Other

by bellwetherr



Category: The Last Kingdom (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Fluff and Smut, Meta, Multi, Rom Com Shenanigans, Romance, Suspension Of Disbelief
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:48:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26609266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellwetherr/pseuds/bellwetherr
Summary: Sylvie knew her life would change the moment she learned her grandmother had left her the cottage in Cookham Dean, but a freak thunderstorm and a warrior from the 9th century were absolutely not on her list of “what ifs” when she planned to move across the Atlantic.
Relationships: Finan (The Last Kingdom)/Original Character(s)
Comments: 137
Kudos: 112





	1. how many crime docs is too many crime docs?

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, it's fun. It's ridiculous. Don't think too much about it? Thank you to the Enablers for being the best, most supportive folks!

“You are looking _very_ Rosie the Riveter today.”

Sylvie adjusted her grip on her iPhone to take a brief glance down at the overalls she was wearing, the dark denim soft and faded and recently purchased at her favorite neighborhood vintage place just before she left Brooklyn. Her brows furrowed at the amused tone in his voice. She glanced back up, pressing her lips together as she studied her best friend’s pixelated face on FaceTime. 

“Are you making fun of me?” she asked, tilting her head just slightly, ignoring the messy bun and bandana she did, in fact, have wrapped around her head. 

“What? No, no- you look cute,” Garrett replied. “Like Meryl Streep in Mamma Mia-”

“Ah, so this is what thirty brings me,” Sylvie sighed. “Comparisons to Meryl Streep.”

“She does look incredible for her age.”

“Did you call for a reason?” she asked, in exasperation. “I am trying to be productive here.”

“Just checking in,” he said, his hand curving under his chin innocently. “It’s not everyday your best friend abandons you and moves to fucking England.”

Sylvie sighed and allowed herself to fall backward onto the leather sofa she had been wiping down when her phone rang, tucking her body into the same worn spot she used to curl up in during her summer visits to Cookham Dean- not a single book in her grandfather’s collection went unread. The den had been his favorite place in the house, the record player going through Roy Orbison’s discography, and the scent a distinct mixture of whiskey and wood shavings from his work in the studio out back. But now, it was Pine Sol and dust, the house musty after months sitting empty. 

“I’m okay,” she told him, arm outstretched as she let her eyes flicker to her reflection on the phone. She cringed at the angle and shifted her position. “The house reeks of bleach and I think I might’ve inhaled a bit too much ammonia but otherwise, I’m fine.”

“Have you thought anymore about what you’re gonna do?”

She shook her head.

“No,” she said, her free hand rubbing at her face. “Selling it seems so fucked- I mean this house has been in my family for like 100 years. And the real estate agent is such a vulture, I swear she’s called me at least three times this week.”

Garrett shifted and the camera hovered at his shoulder before he righted himself and Sylvie could see the coffee mug in his other hand as he sucked in a breath. “So, Tess and I were talking-” 

Sylvie met Garrett and Tess during her freshman year at Fordham, the three of them in the same orientation group. They had bonded immediately over their mutual love of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Jenny Lewis and been inseparable ever since, Tess and Sylvie even sharing their first post-college apartment together in Park Slope. With the little family Sylvie had, Garrett and Tess had become her chosen crew. 

“We actually think you should stay,” he said, hesitantly. “At least for a little while- I mean, this could be a really great opportunity for you to take a little break.”

“Really?” she asked. “What happened to my ‘ _abandoning you_ ’?”

Garrett sighed, “Listen, you know I’m a dramatic bitch when I want to be, but I don’t think I could convince you in good faith to just sell the place and come back home. Not after everything that’s happened-”

He didn’t even have to say his name for Sylvie’s chest to tighten. 

“Yeah,” Sylvie nodded, swallowing over nothing. “Yeah, I know- look, I’ll figure it out. There’s still some paperwork to go through from the inheritance, and I have a meeting with my grandmother’s estate lawyer next week. At the very least, I’ll have a few weeks in dear old Cookham to make a decision.” 

“Good,” Garrett said. “Just take it easy, okay? And Slyvie?”

She raised her brows.

“Hire a cleaning service before you asphyxiate.” 

“Your concern is astounding, truly,” she laughed. 

But as much as she hated cleaning, Sylvie couldn’t leave the task in anyone else’s hands. This was the home her mother was born in, the home that welcomed her every summer and every Christmas holiday, the home that she spent countless hours exploring when she was younger. She tried not to think of how long it had been since her last real visit, before the hospital and the doctors and the goodbyes.

Now, she had all the time in the world and her grandmother was gone. 

It happened quickly, the cancer settling into her bones faster than anyone had thought possible. Even the doctors had hopes she would hang on a little bit longer. But Julianna Wright had lived too long without her husband, and the diagnosis only meant she was that much closer to reuniting with him or so she said. It was hard for Sylvie to accept, hard to come to terms with the fact that after her grandmother passed it would only be her and her brother Russell left in the Wright family. They had been dealt too much loss over the years, lived through too much tragedy.

It was her father leaving before Russell was even born. It was her mother dying in a freak car accident just as Sylvie was graduating from college. It was her grandfather succumbing to a heart attack just after Christmas in 2015. It was too much. It was all way too much. 

And her grandmother had always been the rock, steadfast and strong and present. 

Who was that role supposed to be filled by now? Sylvie? 

She sighed as she turned back on the record player and resumed her cleaning, grabbing the spray bottle from the coffee table and working at the nooks and crannies of her grandfather’s book shelf, removing his collection of Philip K. Dick novels carefully as she wiped around the oak shelving. Her grandmother had spent the last few months of her life in hospice, the house only seeing life in the form of a friend who would collect the mail and check the locks every once in a while. Sylvie had been furious when she found out the extent of her grandmother’s condition, remembering all the phone calls they’d shared before Julianna finally admitted just how sick she really was. 

Sylvie and Russell took the first flight out of Laguardia, the two siblings in a panic about what to do, how to prepare- what would come next? They had three days together before she finally passed, as if their presence was permission enough for her to go.

_“The cottage- my darling, it’s yours,” Julianna whispered one morning while Russell was down the hall, on a mission for a croissant from the kitchens. “You have always belonged in that house-”_

_“Grandma, you’re being silly-” Sylvie leaned forward in her chair, waving her hand at the idea._

_“It’s already in the will,” Julianna smiled. “There’s no use in arguing.”_

_“What about that second round of chemo? Dr. Tanner thinks-”_

_“Dr. Tanner can sod off frankly, I’m quite fine as I am,” Julianna said, her eyes clear as she held her granddaughter’s gaze. “I miss my George.”_

_“But what about Russ? And me?” Sylvie asked, feeling sick to her stomach, feeling like all the wind had been knocked from her chest. “I don’t know if I can-”_

_But her grandmother clutched at Sylvie’s hand, her skin soft and cool as she held tightly._

_“You can,” she said simply. “You two will be just fine. I know it. Do you know how I know it?”_

_“How?” Sylvie asked, voice catching in her throat._

_“Because you always have been. My two tough little darlings."_

Her phone began to vibrate against the coffee table, a sounding alarm competing with the soft melodies of Aretha Franklin and she was thankful for the distraction. Her throat felt tight and her eyes stung with tears that now seemed to spring up out of nowhere these days. She rubbed at her eyes with the heel of her palm as she twisted, reaching to grab her phone-

 **Severe Weather Alert:** Storm Warning in effect for London until 22:33 

Sylvie crossed the room, fingers prying at the curtains as she glanced out the window, eyes glancing up at the sky. The clouds were drawing near, dark and heavy. She cursed, realizing any outside work would have to wait until tomorrow. 

But the grocery store could not.

The pantry was incredibly bare and the fridge empty. She couldn’t subsist off of takeout alone, as much as she had already tried in her few days here.

\--

The keys rattled against the ignition as Sylvie revved the engine, listening as the station wagon coughed up to a start. She was amazed it still ran after all these years, the car one of the most consistent fixtures at the cottage in her childhood. She sucked in a breath as she put her foot to the gas, the gravel of the drive spitting out under the tires as she turned onto the main road. She fiddled with the radio dial until she settled on a New Wave station, Robert Smith’s vocals the perfect soundtrack as she traveled toward Marlow.

Living in Red Hook, she didn’t do much driving- mostly weekend trips with rental cars and it was always Ben that did the bulk of the driving, anyway. He was a control freak about road trips, and hated the way Sylvie would drive with her leg propped up on her seat. She shifted as the song changed, the Pet Shop Boys and Dusty Springfield next as a British voice introduced them. 

She rolled the window down while she still could, the air heavy with the promise of rain but still dry enough that she could enjoy the wind on this summer afternoon. She hummed along to the song, hair blowing around her face as she tapped her hands against the steering wheel. The grocery store wasn’t far, not much more than a mile or so from the cottage, and she was glad for its close proximity- it left her little chance of getting lost.

The Sainsbury’s was bright and chilly and left Sylvie kicking herself for not bringing a proper list. All she had was a reminder to “buy food” in her notes app which helped her not at all as her stomach grumbled. She had accidentally skipped lunch in her commitment to wash all the floors. It was a deadly combination- grocery shopping while hungry and that was made apparent as Sylvie lingered in front of the cracker aisle, her cart already filled with an odd array of things, and quite a few bottles of wine. 

_“What is that- a malbec? But we’re serving filet mignon-”_

_“Does it matter?” she asked, fingers gripping at the neck of the bottle. “It’s just Russ and his girlfriend- I don’t even think she drinks-”_

_“I do,” Ben replied tartly. “And you know I prefer a Syrah-”_

It was funny, the way memories replayed themselves, little details becoming more clear as time went on. Sylvie grabbed a bag of Goldfish from off the shelf, a snack Ben despised, and tossed it into her cart. Her brow furrowed as she remembered the last time she saw her ex-fiance, the two of them awkwardly dancing around each other as their landlord completed the walk-through for their security deposit, their footsteps on the hardwood echoing against the bare walls, their harsh whispers no doubt carrying much further than either of them would have wanted.

They hadn’t been engaged for very long when her grandmother passed and she should have known when Ben didn’t come to the funeral, his law firm in the middle of a case so big they couldn’t give him bereavement for someone who “wasn’t really family,” a punch to the gut considering how quickly Julianna and George had welcomed Ben into their home. She should have known when he wasn’t there upon her return, a late night at the office collecting evidence. She should have known well before she finally did. 

But she didn’t. 

And when she did, when she finally learned of his affair, of the way he had so quickly fallen for one of the paralegals in his office, it made her decision to leave New York swift, and even simple.

It was one of the last gifts her grandmother could give her, a chance to escape. 

“Are you havin’ a party?” the clerk asked as she rang through the different varieties of cheese Sylvie had piled up on the conveyor belt. 

“Something like that,” Sylvie mused as she pulled her wallet from her purse. 

She tried not to cringe at the total, remembering the difference between the dollar and the pound certainly weighed in the UK’s favor. But she was building the cottage pantry back up from nothing, and who didn’t need at least three kinds of cracker and four kinds of cheese and a little jar of fig jam for the brie she planned to snack on later? Maybe her newly single life in England meant she could build herself charcuterie plates for every meal and maybe it didn’t matter which wine paired the best with cured sopressata. 

Sylvie glanced back up at the sky after filling the trunk with the grocery bags, thankful it shut at all with how much she stuffed inside. The rain had yet to unleash itself but she saw flashes of lightning across the sky, the summer heat no doubt to blame. Siouxsie and the Banshees were playing on the radio and Sylvie held the button down to program the station as a favorite, pleased to hear the low rumblings of Siouxsie Sioux as lightning lit up the sky.

She propped her leg up on the seat, a smirk pulling at her lips as she pulled back onto the road. 

Ben could go fuck himself.

\--

Sylvie’s hand patted across the leather cushion as she searched for the remote, her eyes glued to the screen as the investigator sat the suspect down, a low sigh emitting from the older man. She finally curled her hand around the object, finger frantically pressing at the volume. She was halfway through a crime documentary about a husband who murdered his wife and he had just taken a polygraph test. He looked so sure and so confident. 

“So, let’s talk about the polygraph-” the investigator said as he puffed out his chest. “Ya didn’t pass, son.” 

The husband stared at him. “What, I don’t understand- I didn’t lie-”

“Well, this thing says ya did, so you might wanna tell us what really happened now-”

“I didn’t hurt her, I swear, I have no idea where she is-”

“There’s a woman in the other room who says ya do, son. She says she’s your girlfriend,” the investigator continued, raising his bushy eyebrows knowingly. “Funny how ya didn’t mention you was havin’ an affair.”

Sylvie’s eyes lit up as the rain continued to assault the windows, the storm in full effect as she curled up under the blanket, her legs tucked underneath her body as she watched the husband break down and begin to cry. _Of course_ , she thought. _Of fucking course he was cheating_.

She could feel the way the wind whipped outside, tree branches grazing against the windows as the cottage creaked ever so slightly. That storm warning was no joke, and Sylvie was relieved she got her groceries in just before the skies opened up. It had been raging for hours now, the night sky lighting up every so often with flashes of lightning, bright enough to illuminate the woods just behind the house. The raindrops spilled down the glass, creating a sort of watercolor effect on the view outside, even as dark as it was. 

She reached for her glass of wine, just as the husband finally gave his confession, a teary-eyed monologue about how the wife, the actual victim, had stifled his masculinity, had made him feel less than. She rolled her eyes, tongue swishing around the cold sauvignon blanc. _Then you divorce her, you psycho_ , she thought as she settled back against the cushions. 

Suddenly, the tv screen went black and the little lamp on the side table clicked off. 

Sylvie was engulfed in darkness. 

“Fuck,” she grumbled.

She sat there lamely for a moment, harboring a flicker of a hope that the power would come back on. But after a minute of nothing but the sound of rain against the roof, Sylvie put down the glass of wine and rose from her spot on the couch. A chill crept through her skin and she kept the blanket wrapped around her shoulders as her bare feet padded across the floor and into the kitchen. 

She was rummaging through the junk drawer as she tried to remember where the fuse box was, her teeth catching at her bottom lip as she finally found a box of matches, a faded imprint from her grandmother’s favorite Indian restaurant emblazoned on the lid. Some may call Sylvie a “basic-candle-buying-bitch” but it certainly came in handy for moments like this, the heady scent of cardamom and palo santo wafting through the room as she shuffled toward the the other end of the cottage, tugging the blanket a bit tighter around her as she stepped into the garage.

The idea of parking a car inside the garage had been a running joke throughout the years, the space otherwise occupied by holiday decorations, lawn mowers, weed whackers, a few boxes of things Sylvie’s mother had left behind before moving to New York for college, all kinds of undesirables that were still somehow desirable enough to avoid being thrown into the bin- and Sylvie was carefully climbing around all of them to reach the fuse box with the flashlight of her phone guiding the way.

She flicked at the switches a few times, resetting the main breaker to see if that would jolt the power back. Nothing. She prepared herself for a quiet night scrolling on her phone until the battery died just as a mighty flash of lightning illuminated the space around her. She began to count the seconds but hardly got to two-mississippis when she heard a crash just outside the cottage, the boom so loud it shook the walls around her.

“Shit, shit, shit-”

_What the fuck was that?_

It was the old oak tree in the backyard, and one of its heavier branches was now swaying at an awkward angle. She tried not to panic as she traded in her blanket for the bright yellow rain slicker hanging in the entry closet. Her grandfather’s woodworking studio was just beside that oak tree and although it lay dormant since her grandfather’s passing, she couldn’t fathom waiting until morning to see the damage that had been done. 

She hopped toward the back door as she pulled on her rain boots, juggling a portable lantern in one hand as she adjusted her heel in the one boot with the other. 

“Home ownership is shit,” she muttered to herself as she flipped up the hood.

She was not prepared for just how brutal the wind was as she stepped onto the back patio, her hand holding firmly at her hood to keep it from whipping back. The studio was at the edge of the yard, just before the property turned into woods. She knew the cottage sat on a couple of acres but she had always preferred the actual landscaped backyard over the unknown- the firepit, the lounge chairs, the quiet little hammock that hung in the middle of the garden. 

She grimaced as she flicked on the lantern, her quiet little hammock a twisted up knot thanks to the storm. She carried on toward the studio, frowning as she noticed the way the branch dragged itself across the roofline. It had a large crack at the base and she wondered if that flash of lightning hadn’t been right here in her own backyard. 

But she was relieved to see most of the damage was superficial, no cracked windows or apparent holes that she could see as she lifted the lantern, stepping backward just slightly as she tilted her head for a better view.

Just then, another bolt of lightning lit up the sky. Or so Sylvie thought.

She shook her head, the whiteness swallowing her feeling distinctly different from any lightning she had seen before- and it lasted longer, too. She raised her arm to cover her eyes, feet taking another step back as something heavy landed against her. She let out a weird mixture of a yelp and a scream as she went down, the lantern slipping from her grip as she landed on her side. 

She had been hit not by a something, but a _someone_. 

She scrambled backward, hands slipping in the wet grass as she heard a quiet groan from the body on the ground beside her. Sylvie lunged for the lantern, shaky hands wrapping around the handle as she held it up in front of her, knees sinking in the soft, wet earth, her hair soaking wet and sticking to her face now as her hood fell back in the fall. 

“Bleatin’ hell-” 

She swallowed as she took sight of the body the voice belonged to, a man- with dark hair and a thick beard, currently rolling to his side, face screwed up in pain as he slowly brought himself to his knees, his arm pressing against his stomach. He paused, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment before he slowly opened them again. Sylvie could feel her heart thudding in her chest, her body frozen in fear as she stared at him, brow furrowing as she realized he was wearing some kind of leather vest- like he was an extra in Game of Thrones. 

_Great, I’m going to be murdered by Jon fucking Snow._

His eyes finally met hers and he jolted back, not dissimilar to Sylvie’s own actions just a few moments ago. He tilted his head, a flash of confusion settling over his features before twisting his neck, as if he was looking for something. 

“Did ya see a Dane come through here?”

He was Irish, his accent thick enough that Sylvie wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly but she did not miss the slight bewilderment in his voice.

“A _what_?”

“A Dane-” he repeated loudly as he competed with the howling of the wind, his eyes searching the grass around them. “A big, burly lookin’ fella with a scar across his eye- listen, Lady, yer in danger, there are raiders on the loose-”

“What the hell are you talking about?” she shouted, as she tried to scramble to her feet.

He looked back at her, head tilting up as she stood over him, and Sylvie couldn’t figure out why she wasn’t running for the cottage, or why he wasn’t lunging for her. Instead, he lifted his arm to shield his eyes. “Do ya mind not shinin’ that thing right in my face-”

She didn’t move, instead peering down at him curiously.

“Who are you?”

He squinted, his lips curling slightly into a grimace as she brought the lantern closer to him. “Finan, Lady- but not for much longer if I don’t find my sword-” 

Sylvie sucked in a breath. “Your _what_?”

“Can ya not understand me?” he asked, affronted, shifting to bring himself to his feet.

But he didn’t make much progress, his body doubling over as he winced, his hand once again clutching at his waist. He was hurt. Without thinking, she took a step toward him but her brain was screaming at her to stop. So, she did.

He managed to straighten without her, grunting as he finally brought himself to his feet, his hand pressing against the trunk of the oak tree to steady himself. Sylvie took a step back as she took in the full view of him, her eyes rubbing at her face to clear the raindrops from her eyelashes. He was tall, a head taller than she was, maybe, and broad, the size of him intimidating even in that ridiculous costume. He pressed himself up against the tree for a moment, his eyes traveling to the edge of the forest behind them.

She could see the cut in his side, the fabric of his shirt torn. Was he in the tree? Is that what happened? Did he fall from a branch and that was how he hurt himself?

“Are you going to kill me?” she asked, her voice feeling horse as she tried to hear herself over the storm. “Because if this is some elaborate trick to murder the unsuspecting new girl in town I am going to be really pissed off that I helped you-” 

“Am I gonna _what_?” Finan snapped his head back toward her. “No, Lady, I’m not gonna kill ya- why would I-” 

But whatever words were going to come next died on his lips as he seemed to look past her, suddenly very interested in what was behind her. There was that confusion, that bewilderment flashing across his face. He stepped forward, beside her, his hand clumsily brushing at her shoulder as he sucked in a breath.

“What’s that?” he demanded. 

Sylvie turned around, following his gaze as it rested on the cottage.

“What?”

“That Hall- that wasn’t there before- this- this is just woods, I don’t- I don’t understand-” 

Part of her felt like she was being pranked, like this was some weird welcome into Cookham Dean. Was Russell hiding somewhere? Was this all a joke? But as she turned toward him, there was something in his face that worried her, her stomach twisting into knots when she remembered the flash of light and the way he suddenly seemed to appear out of nowhere. 

“What are you talking about? This house has been here for like a hundred and fifty years-”

“Where am I?” he asked, then, his voice soft, his gaze fixed on the cottage.

“You’re in Cookham,” she said. “Cookham Dean.”

He turned to face her, and even in the darkness, even in the torrential downpour they were both subjecting themselves to, she could see the fear in his eyes. They held her gaze for a moment before flickering down to the rain slicker wrapped around her body, to the rain boots on her feet, frown lines deepening as he studied her- as if he was really looking at her properly for the first time. He didn’t say anything for a moment, and she watched as he ran his hand across his face, fingers tugging at the thick beard that covered his jaw. 

“A hundred and fifty years?” he repeated.

“Yeah- 1860 something,” Sylvie replied, wrapping her arms around her chest.

“Bleatin’ hell-” 


	2. this is nothing like back to the future

“Ow- _shit_ , hold on, sorry-” 

Sylvie winced as she bent to rub at her knee, regretting not putting away the rest of the boxes in the kitchen, and judging her choice for piling them up at the back door. The power was still out and even with the lantern leading them inside the house, Sylvie was admittedly incredibly distracted, the soaking wet Irishman beside her capturing much of her attention. She nudged the large bin out of the way before stepping inside.

“You can uh- come in,” she said, awkwardly gesturing her hand. “I should have something in a first aid kit, maybe- somewhere-” 

Finan moved slowly, his eyes flickering around the room as he followed her into the kitchen. He had become awfully quiet since she mentioned the year the cottage was built, a hint of something she couldn’t place sinking into his expression. A soft light flickered from the candle on the kitchen table, illuminating the shadows across his face as he turned, neck craned slightly as he took in the room around him. Outside of the raging storm, she could see the marks of dirt along his cheekbones, how his knuckles were bruised and scraped. Dane or not, he had been fighting something. Someone. She watched him carefully as she took off her raincoat, lips pressed into a tight line as she weighed whether to leave him alone or not. 

If he was going to attack her, he would have by now, right?

She sighed inwardly as she draped her coat on the back of the nearest chair- she really needed to stop watching crime documentaries after dark.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, spinning on her heel toward the powder room, hoping that the little first aid kit her grandmother kept was still under the sink, something she kept on hand for the many times Sylvie and Russell came in from outside with scraped knees.

She wondered if she should call 911- no, 999, whatever number it was to get the police here as she moved back into the living room, hand grazing at the banister of the stairs as she turned to push open the door of the little bathroom on the main floor. But what would that do? _Take away the crazy man in the costume, you big idiot!_ But there was something nagging in her gut that the flash of light wasn’t lighting. And that telling anyone what had happened here tonight would do her absolutely no good at all.

She propped the lantern on the counter as she knelt down, digging through the spare linens and toiletries until her fingers hit a metal bin in the back. 

“ _Yes_ ,” she whispered as she pulled the kit out, dragging a few towels out with it. 

As she righted herself, she caught her reflection in the mirror and grimaced. Her hair was in sopping wet ringlets around her chin and smudges of dirt traced her jaw. She grabbed one of the towels, rubbing it against her face and through her hair as she tried to take a deep breath. This was a man who was hurt, clearly in need of help, and perhaps also in need of a very good psychiatric therapist. But he didn’t seem to want to hurt her. She could patch him up, make him some tea, and send him on his way. She could absolutely do that. 

With one last exhale, she tucked the kit under her arm and tossed a fresh towel over her shoulder before grabbing the lantern and making her way back into the kitchen, her rain boots squelching against the hardwood floors she had only just scrubbed clean a few hours ago. 

_A problem for another day, Sylvie._

“Operation first aid kit has been a success-” 

Her words preceded her as she returned to the kitchen, Finan twisting to face her as she entered the room. He hadn’t really moved from where she left him, the Irishman still hovering in the middle of the kitchen, and he seemed anxious as she stepped toward him. She paused her footsteps and offered him a small smile as she tilted her head toward the table.

“Do you want to sit?” she asked, as she rested everything on the tabletop. “I can’t say I’m a world class surgeon but I can at least get you cleaned up and bandaged.”

His eyes followed hers and with a tight nod he moved toward the table, his hand shaky as it grabbed the back of the chair. If he was pretending, he was doing a damn fine job of playing scared shitless. She watched as he undid the belt from his waist and for the first time that night she noticed the weapons dangling at his hips, at least two small swords or daggers or whatever they might be called in sheathed in leather. She swallowed as he placed them on the table, wondering if maybe he was a reenactor of some kind, something to help explain what in the hell was actually going on.

He seemed stiff as he sat and with unsteady fingers, he fumbled with the clasp at his neck as she pulled up another chair to sit opposite him.

“Can I help?” she asked, voice a whisper.

He didn’t say anything but his eyes lifted to meet hers and Sylvie couldn’t help but reach forward, working the leather strap from the buckle. She had never seen anything like it before and even in the haze of candlelight, she knew that it was real leather, worn and well used. Her knees knocked against his accidentally and she let out a breath of quiet laughter, an anxious reaction as she moved on to the second buckle, focusing instead on the intricacies of the design and not the way his broad hands splayed against his thighs. 

“Yer bein’ very kind,” he said.

She could feel his eyes on her as she undid the strap, her own hands feeling shaky when she realized just how close she was to this strange man, the way she could smell the scent of rain water and sweat and the faint traces of fresh grass clinging to his skin, his clothing. She shrugged as she pulled back, averting his gaze.

“You were hurt on my property,” she told him. “You’re sort of my responsibility, I think.” 

She tried not to watch as he shrugged his vest from his shoulders, his lips biting back a wince as his torso twisted with the movement. She busied herself with the first aid kit, pulling out cotton pads and antiseptic wipes and a few differently sized bandages. Underneath the vest was another one, more simple, with bands of leather stitched together neatly and leather laces at his sides keeping it in place. He reached with one hand to work at the ties and Sylvie leaned toward him to help with the other side.

“This must take forever to put on-” she noted, carefully watching his movements so she could properly mimic him.

“Better on than dead,” he said quietly. 

She looked up, stricken, only to find a hint of a good-natured grin. 

“Ya get used to it,” he clarified.

She exhaled, shaking her head at him as she stood to help lift the armor from his chest. That’s what it was, wasn’t it? His armor? Chainmail and all, she noticed, as this next layer revealed a thick fabric with the metal stitched right into his sleeves. 

“At least a part of you was kept dry,” she commented as he pulled the chainmail from his body, leaving him in a thin layer of fabric, another tunic of some kind, a little damp from the rain but certainly better off than the rest of him was. There was a tear in the side and she could finally get a better look at the gash in his skin. 

“Aye, it’s too bad I don’t have a weird little jacket like you've got.”

“My raincoat?” she mused.

“If that’s what ya call it-” 

She eyed him curiously as she sat back down, hand absently reaching for the clean towel she brought. “Um, here- you can dry off a bit while I take a look at this- ” she said, as she gestured to the wound. She grabbed a wipe packet from the kit. “This might sting a bit-”

“S’alright,” he nodded. “I’ve faired worse-” 

She gave him a skeptical glance as she ripped open the little wipe packet. These suckers always stung like hell when she was a kid. Catching her bottom lip between her teeth, she carefully nudged the hem of the tunic up to reveal the long slice in his skin. It was fresh, and one hell of a cut. But the bleeding looked to be slowing down and she pressed the cotton pads against the wound gently to help stop it altogether while she cleaned around it.

She kept thinking about what he said- about raiders on the loose. Danes. The way he didn’t quite see her until he saw the cottage. The way his skin paled when she said 1860.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” she asked.

“I was runnin’ after a Dane,” he said, voice muffled slightly as he ran the towel over his face. “A rouge group of the bastards attacked us on our way back from Wintanceaster, somethin’ about Cnut failin’ them and wantin’ to make a name for themselves-”

She wrinkled her nose in forced concentration as she did her best to clean the skin, trying to understand the language of what he was saying. Some words just didn’t make sense. What the hell was a Cnut? 

“It was the four of us- Uhtred, Sihtric and the baby monk,” he continued, and she could hear an intake of breath as she took a final pass over his wound with a fresh wipe. “They waited ‘til the storm hit. The lot of them weren’t much of a fight- except this hearty bastard tripped me up with this-” he gestured to his side. “I jumped back and then- well-” 

“Well, what?” she prodded when he did not continue on with his sentence.

“I was on my arse,” he chuckled softly. “And then I saw ya, this bright yellow thing-” 

He shifted under her touch, his eyes settling on her in a way that brought a flush to her skin.

“Oh, right-” she nodded, focusing her eyes back on her task. Sylvie reached for the bandage and peeled the backing, careful as she placed it over his cut, her fingers smoothing out the adhesive. “The storm- was it like it is now? A lot of thunder and lightning?”

“Aye, Lady,” Finan nodded. “Just like this. Lightnin’ hit that bleatin’ tree just as that bastard swiped me-”

She perked up. “Was it a long flash of light?”

He tilted his head as he considered her question. 

“Blindin’,” he nodded. “Lit up the whole forest.”

“Fuck me,” she muttered quietly, a sigh passing through her lips. 

“Come again?” he asked, faintly amused.

Sylvie shook her head, laughing in lieu of having the panic attack she could feel bubbling under the surface. “Sorry- I just, maybe I inhaled too much ammonia after all, because this- this is absolutely insane.” 

As if to prove her point, there was a sudden flicker of light and soon the power jolted back on in the cottage. The chaos of the television and the air system and the appliances beeping back to life were enough to cause Finan to spring to his feet. Sylvie screwed up her face in a grimace as she watched him back away from the chair, nearly knocking it over as his eyes grew wide, his hands held out in front of him as if to protect himself.

“What in the _hell_ -”

“Whoa, it’s okay, hold on-” Sylvie rose to her feet slowly, hand tentatively reaching for him. “It’s just the power going back on, everything’s fine-”

“The _what_?”

“The power,” she repeated. “The electricity? I’m really trying to be cool but dude, you’re officially scaring me.”

“Oh, yer scared?” A strangled sort of laugh escaped from his lips and Finan hunched his shoulders as he gestured to the room around him. “Try suddenly appearin’ in a world ya don’t recognize! Lady, I don’t understand anythin’ that’s happenin’ right now. I don’t understand where I am- what yer wearin’- how ya got this bleatin’ bandage to _stick_ to my skin like this- and there is a voice comin’ from somewhere else in this place and ya don’t seem phased by it one bit!” 

“It’s the television,” she said, lamely, her hands hanging limply at her sides.

“I dunno what that is!” 

Sylvie shifted from one foot to the next, suddenly wishing she wasn’t wearing her vintage Sailor Moon tee shirt or the sweat shorts with the queso stain on the hem. She pressed her lips together as she considered him, and the panic that seemed to be emitting from his skin brought a knot to her stomach. She took a hesitant step toward him.

“When you woke up this morning, what year was it?”

It was probably the most insane and absurd question she had ever uttered, perhaps even crazier than the half-drunk, half breakdown-induced “Do you love her?” she had cried into the phone one night when her brain finally fizzled out and her heart was desperate to hear Ben’s voice on the phone. 

Finan didn’t say anything for a moment.

“When I woke this mornin’, it was at an inn above an alehouse and nothin’ made noise that shouldn’t and houses didn’t sprout up out of nothin’ and it was the year 900- but I’ve a feelin’ that’s not what it is now, is it?”

Sylvie blinked. 

“That’s-” She rubbed at her face with her hands. “Finan, that was a very long time ago-”

“How long?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“You know what, I don’t think-”

“How _long_?” he repeated, sternly.

“It’s 2019,” she said. “So, if you’re telling me the truth, whatever happened- whatever brought you here- it brought you over a thousand years into the future-” 

There was a long and heavy silence that lingered between them and Sylvie didn’t know what to do with herself. She watched him for a moment before she scratched at the back of her head, willing herself to say something, do something- anything to break up the tension. Then, because every other idea in her head seemed insane, she walked toward the stove and grabbed the kettle from off the burner. 

“Maybe I died,” he said, suddenly. “Maybe that Dane ran me through, I’m dead and _this_ is-” He paused and let out a frustrated huff of breath. “Well, I dunno what but if it’s Valhalla, Uhtred’s got a lot of explainin’ to do-” 

“If you’re dead, I’m dead,” Sylvie said as she turned on the faucet to fill the kettle. “And I’d really like to not be, so let’s just say- let’s say that this is all real-” 

She sucked in a breath as she turned on the front burner, waiting for the click-click sound as the flames swelled up before settling the kettle back down to warm.

“You _are_ in the year 2019 and um, this is my house- which is a very weird thing to say out loud- and um, I’m gonna make us some tea and we’re going to eat these biscuits my grandmother used to make me eat when I had nightmares and we’re going to figure this out and we’ll be fine- totally cool and calm and not like we’re in _Back to the Future_ -” 

She could feel him watching her as she was flitting around the kitchen, grabbing mugs and small plates and piling everything up in her arms. She was rambling and she knew it but as she rifled through the pantry for the box of Yorkshire Tea and the tin of digestives she picked up from Sainsbury’s earlier, she didn’t think her crossover into manic could make the night any worse. She was struggling to balance the tea box under her chin when Finan approached her and gently took the box from her grasp along with the small plates.

“I really dunno what yer sayin’, Lady, but I reckon’ it deserves a thanks,” he told her, a sheepish sort of smile quirking at the corner of his mouth. “Lemme help ya.”

“My name is Sylvie, actually,” she said. “I realized I never introduced myself and if I’ve got a houseguest from the 9th century, I should tell you now that we don’t really do that whole ‘Lady’ or ‘Lord’ thing anymore- unless you’re like, royalty. But I’m American, so that is extremely not possible-”

She was rambling again.

“So, uh, Sylvie is just fine.” 

“Alright, Sylvie,” he said with a soft nod and she couldn’t help but like the way her name sounded when he said it, the slope of the pronunciation particularly sweet sounding. “Tell me, what are ‘digestives’?”

She laughed. Either she was going absolutely mad or this man was growing on her.

“They’re a biscuit and they’re really good when you dip them in tea,” she explained as she made room at the table. As if on cue, the kettle began to whistle and she hurried back to the stove to turn off the burner. “Now you’ll have to let it steep for a few minutes and be careful because the water is hot- but I promise it will all be worth it.” 

Finan watched her in quiet amazement as she made their tea, careful not to mix in too much milk- hearing her grandmother’s voice in the back of her head as she warned about making it too light: _“That’s just some soppy milk, innit?”_

“I’m confused,” she said, then, as she sat down beside him once again. “Do they not have tea in the 9th century? I thought Brits were like born with tea leaves in their veins-” 

Finan chuckled. “Well, I’m Irish. So, we’ve got ale? Wine. Mead, sometimes. Milk- but that’s for the wee ones.” 

She laughed. “Well, remind me to slowly introduce you to the absurd variety of things we’ve got in 2019,” she said before nudging the small plate of digestives toward him. “Now go on, try it.”

He eyed her curiously before following her lead and dipping the biscuit into the tea, dunking it a few times before finally taking a bite. Seeing him properly now, under the bright pendant light hanging from the kitchen ceiling, she couldn’t help but find him kind of cute- handsome, even, when she could see the warmth behind his eyes and the way his face lit up when he took another bite. Which probably meant it had been just on the edge of too long since the last time she’d gotten laid. But still, she couldn’t help but laugh at the smile on his face as he reached for another biscuit.

“Yer right,” he said, chuckling through his bite of food. “That’s good- that’s real good-” 

“I used to get these really scary nightmares when I was a kid,” she said, idly stirring her tea. “And I’d wake up in a cold sweat, just losing my mind, and my grandmother would sit me down right here and make me tea and practically shove a digestive down my throat and suddenly everything was better.”

Julianna probably had no idea that her nighttime tradition would lead to her granddaughter feeding a 9th century warrior in her very own kitchen but well, life was always going to be full of mysteries and surprises, wasn’t it? And so far, the biggest mystery and surprise of all seemed to be that Sylvie was beginning to believe that Finan was who he said he was. 

“Your grandmother sounds a bit like my mam,” Finan chuckled as he wrapped his hand around the mug, bringing the tea to his lips. “Bleatin’ hell, how did ya get it warm like this? I don’t see a hearth anywhere-” 

Sylvie sighed. “We have stoves now. And ovens. And refrigerators. You know, things have _really_ advanced in a thousand years.”

“Aye, seems a bit,” he said, eyes flickering to her shirt. “Is this what women wear now?”

“Oh-” Sylvie glanced down at her pajamas and laughed. “No- I mean, yes, maybe to bed. Or the gym. I can’t really wear these shorts in public anymore- not after the big queso spill of 2018-”

Finan’s brow furrowed.

“Sorry- women were probably a bit more… modest in your time, huh?” she asked. 

He shifted in his seat, and she could have sworn she saw a hint of pink flush his cheeks. 

“Ya could say that,” he said, finally.

“I’m not making you uncomfortable, am I?” she asked, pressing her hand against her chest.

She had taken note of the Celtic cross hanging from his neck but Sylvie hadn’t really thought to put two and two together. She wasn’t a particularly religious person, herself. She had tucked one leg underneath her body as she sat, but now wondered if she should have crossed her legs at the ankle or something. Not like that was incredibly easy with tall rubber rain boots. 

“No- no,” Finan said quickly. “Yer fine. I’ve seen a woman’s legs before, believe it or not.” 

Sylvie let out a bright laugh. “That might be the most believable thing you’ve said all night.” 

Was she really flirting with the insane time traveling warrior? 

A quiet humming noise came from the kitchen counter and Sylvie perked up at the sound of the vibrate on her iPhone. She’d forgotten she’d left it there before she’d gone outside to investigate. Before she had a strange man in armor to contend with. She offered Finan a soft smile before crossing to the other end of the room to see a slew of notifications on her home screen. 

**New Message Alert  
**66 Unread Messages

CO--STAR  
**Your day at a glance  
**Take a cold shower.

 **ADT  
**Camera 1 detected general motion at 22:12:04 on 12/07/2019

It was unsettling to feel judged by an astrology app but co--star did it with incredible finesse. She cleared the notification quickly with a roll of her eyes before opening up her text messages. The bulk were from a group chat with Tess and Garrett, the two of them trading Hinge profiles they found amusing and while Sylvie was briefly intrigued by the account executive who chose Gimli over Legolas and Aragorn, she was far more interested in the little notification bubble hovering on the ADT app she’d recently downloaded. Cookham Dean was a fairly crime free area and she never once felt unsafe in the cottage, but her grandfather had installed security cameras a few years back when he suspected the neighbors of sneaking in to steal his chard from the garden. 

Camera 1 was affixed to the roofline on the studio. 

She clicked the notification and found a grainy screencap of the oak tree outside. Was this from before the power cut out? Curious, Sylvie pressed the little play button in the corner and watched as a flash of light lit up the screen, and a wave of sparks emitted from the oak tree- she could hear a quiet ‘whoosh’ as the branch snapped. She suddenly remembered about the backup generator. Her grandfather installed the cameras on a separate power source. She felt her heart begin to thump in her chest as she noticed the hood of her jacket come into view- then, that second flash of light.

“ _Finan_ -” 

There it was. 

In the bright light, Sylvie could still make out her form and she watched as she took a step back just as a jagged sort of line opened up in the middle of the sky. She brought her screen closer to her face and pressed pause.

“Finan- I think you need to see this-” 

She chewed roughly on her bottom lip as the Irishman crossed to where she stood, concern flicking across his face briefly before confusion settled in. 

“What is that?”

“I can explain later but I think I really do believe you,” she said, skin feeling warm. “This is a recording of what happened outside- the storm, the flash of light- _look_ -” 

And she closed the space between them so that she could share her screen with him, Finan hunching his shoulders toward her so that he could watch as she rewound back a few seconds and finally pressed play. Even in the whitewashed screen of the flashing light, it was incredibly clear: Finan suspended in mid-air from what looked like a gap in the sky.

There was no mistaking it. 

That weird, twisted sort of feeling Sylvie felt in her gut had been correct. 

Whatever it was that flashed in the sky, it wasn’t lightning. 

“Is that me?” Finan asked, breathless, eyes intent as she rewound again, both of them watching as he reappeared again in the sky, directly colliding with Sylvie on his way down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, but seriously. Does anyone else feel personally victimized by the co--star app?


	3. i can’t believe i’m googling the history of the toilet

Sylvie awoke with a groan, shifting under the sheets to feel around for her phone. She blinked her eyes open one at a time, surprised to see her room still dark, no sign of sunlight streaming in through the curtains she had made a mental note to swap out with something more modern, something less 1960’s granny- even if she could admit there was something chic about the deep maroon and cream floral pattern looming over her. Her fingers hit something hard and she twisted onto her stomach as she lit up the home screen. 04:42 AM. 

_Fuck me._

She had climbed into bed well after midnight, well after the rather awkward introduction she made between the bathroom and Finan, well after she made the guest room up with fresh sheets and found a pair of old grey sweatpants that would possibly, maybe, somewhat obscenely fit the warrior so that he could finally get out of those wet clothes. She contemplated whether his things were washing machine friendly before hanging them up to dry in the laundry room. She had a slightly hysterical vision of his tunic and trousers shrunken in child size and didn’t want to deal with that explanation after the overwhelming amount of answers she’d given over things she couldn’t possibly explain because they’d just always been there. Which is why she spent thirty minutes before falling asleep googling the history of the toilet. 

She sighed, burying her face in her pillow as she contemplated what to do.

She had come to Cookham for an escape, a break, a release from her life in New York. She had filed away all of her outstanding articles with her editors, sold every piece of furniture she’d ever purchased and packed up the rest of her things to fly across the Atlantic to get away from everything- from Ben, from the too many deadlines she’d signed herself up for in wake of her grandmother’s death, and from friends who were trying to be nice but asked ‘How are you holding up?’ one too many times. 

And yet, just down the hall, in the same bedroom Sylvie used to sleep in when she was younger and spending the holidays with her grandparents, was a man who literally fell from the _fucking sky_ and landed in her backyard. So much for her plan to become a spinster tucked away in the English countryside.

She remembered what she said as she was patching him up: “You’re sort of my responsibility-” and mentally punched herself in the face. Was he? Did he have to be? _Yeah, sure, set him up with an Airbnb and see how that goes._ She burrowed herself under the blanket, willing away the flicker of pain that had flashed across his face when he watched the video, the quiet voice asking her “Why?” and “How?” and “What in the bleatin’ hell do I do now?”

She peeled back the corner of the blanket, eyes focusing on the bedroom door, the door she had locked just in case the Irishman turned out to be an expert serial killer after all. 

But she figured if she were going to be murdered it would have happened already, wouldn’t it?

Her phone buzzed in her hand and she rolled onto her back as she peeked at the incoming text message. It was Russell, her baby brother- really a baby no more at 29 years old, but would forever be small in her eyes- even if he was hovering at six feet tall. His inheritance had been in the form of a rather large check and after paying off the rest of his student loans, he’d decided he was going to buy an incredibly busted Volkswagen bus and travel from New York to Seattle, with some stops in between. She laughed at the selfie he sent her, his face twisted into a beaming smile from Bourbon Street. 

**Russell:** Decided to pivot to Nola for the weekend! I’ll be having a beignet in your honor.

As if on cue, her stomach rumbled at the thought of a fresh, warm pastry. 

**Sylvie:** Ugh, jealous. Just don’t do anything stupid, I don’t think I can bail you out from here.

Her phone pinged again almost immediately.

 **Russell:** That was one time! 

She stifled her laughter before finally rolling out of bed, somewhat literally, as it seemed to be the only way to properly catapult her out from underneath the covers. She flexed her toes against the rug as she lifted her arms up, stretching out her body as a yawn passed through her lips. She felt a bit stiff, sore from hand washing the floors the previous day. She twisted at her middle as she rolled her neck.

Sylvie made a mental note to see if there was a yoga studio in town.

She padded into the en suite as another yawn escaped. She felt bone tired but wide awake at the same time. All she could see when she closed her eyes was the security video, the moment the sky opened wide and Finan collided with her. She rubbed at her shoulder as she settled in front of the vanity. Her hair was a wild mess after air drying from the rain, curls and waves and various pieces that hung flat. She raked her fingers through the mass, shaking out the dark brown locks as best she could. 

Her phone vibrated against the counter.

 **Russell:** It’s ass early there why are you awake?

She sighed. Because she was still on Eastern time, because she never could sleep during a thunderstorm, because an Irishman from the year 900 was just down the hallway and he was the only thing she could really think about if she were being honest. But that was the kind of thing she absolutely could not be honest with anyone about so she grabbed her phone and told him a partial truth.

 **Sylvie:** Time difference still has me all fucked up. 

He seemed satisfied with the response, telling her to go back to sleep and that he promised to behave himself. She smiled. She had a feeling that was a partial truth, too. The Wright family always was very good at those. 

Foregoing any attempt at returning to bed, Sylvie dove straight into her morning routine. She washed her face, she brushed her teeth, she applied the ridiculously overpriced skin serum Tess had suggested and stared at her reflection, honestly not seeing the pore minimizing results the $65 dollar bottle promised. She poked at her skin, wondering if she pinched herself hard enough she’d wake up from this ridiculous dream- a time traveling warrior from the 9th century? Honestly, what the fuck.

The video was on constant repeat in her head as she tried to understand just how the hell it was all possible. In her thirty-one years of coming to Cookham Dean, she was absolutely certain her grandparents had never mentioned a magic time traveling portal in the backyard. She shook her head as she pulled herself free from her pajamas and tossed the dirty clothing into the hamper. She huffed a breath as she remembered what Finan said the night before, about her clothing, about having seen the bare legs of a woman before.

She wondered if she should wear jeans and a long sleeve before remembering it was July and settling on a pair of denim cutoffs and an old college tee shirt, the red lettering of ‘FORDHAM’ emblazoned across the chest slightly faded from one too many washes. At least this one didn’t have manga sailor soldiers on it. Bare legs be _damned_ , Irishman. She slipped on a pair of white Converse that had certainly seen better days before tying her hair up into a bun, an attempt to tame the beast until she showered later. 

She was quiet as she stepped from the bedroom, wincing as the hardwood creaked under her step. She looked down the hallway, the door leading to the guest room still closed. She wondered if he was still sleeping or if he was like her, restless. She chewed on the inside of her cheek as she tiptoed down the staircase, not wanting to disturb him either way. 

But when she reached the downstairs and crossed the kitchen to the backdoor, she was surprised to see Finan standing outside, his back facing the house as he hovered at the edge of the patio. She lingered at the door for a moment, following his gaze to where the oak tree stood.

She hovered, considering him for a moment. Part of her had wondered if it had all been some kind of ammonia induced hallucination but there was another smaller part of her that found she was happy to find him outside on her patio. Still here. The sound of the door sliding open caught his attention and he twisted, a small and tired smile curving at the corner of his mouth as he looked back at her. 

“Did you sleep at all?”

“Not much,” he admitted. “Just kept thinkin’ of that- what did ya call it? The record?”

“Recording,” she corrected gently, offering him a smile. “Me too.”

She crossed the patio to stand beside him, her feet hovering at the top of the step. Bits of branches and leaves littered the yard and the garden looked more than a little worse for the wear. She wrapped her arms around her body as she glanced at Finan, finding that the modern clothing she gave him felt a little off, and not just because it didn’t quite fit him. He really did look like a man out of time. 

“It’s like you appeared right out of thin air,” she said, tearing her eyes away from the too-big-for-Sylvie-but-not-quite-big-enough-for-him concert tee shirt she had given him to wear to bed. It clung to his chest and his arms in ways that Sylvie knew she couldn’t think about for too much longer. She cleared her throat as she continued, “Like magic- which is absolutely ridiculous because as much as I loved Hocus Pocus growing up, I know it’s not real-”

Finan grunted a breath. “Ya say that and yet, here we are.”

She pressed her lips together. Even considering for a moment that this was some kind of magical moment led her brain down too many paths and she really did not have the energy for the Labyrinth-esque visions clouding her thoughts. She sighed as she let her hands fall to her sides.

“Here we are,” she mused. 

Finan brought his hand to his face, fingers rubbing at his bottom lip as he took the two steps down to the yard, his bare feet disappearing into the grass as he crossed toward the line where the yard met the forest, where the oak tree stood. Sylvie followed after him with a furrowed brow, the smell of fresh rain and morning dew lingering in the air with every step she took.

“What are you doing?” she called after him.

“I was right here,” he said, gesturing to the ground with both hands. “Right here, fendin’ off a Dane- and there was nothin’ around us, none of these structures. This bit of Coccham was just field and forest-”

“Right, but-”

“I’ve lived through countless storms, Sylvie,” he continued on. “Lightnin’ has never done more than cause a bit of a fright for the horses and it certainly never brought me somewhere else!”

“Hey, this is kind of a first for me, too,” she said with a sigh.

“But yer home,” he countered. “Yer where you’ve been before-” 

“So what? I don’t know what it’s like in your time but men do not just fall from the sky here,” she exclaimed.

He glanced at her with a bemused expression, his hand raking through his thick, dark hair. It looked a little disheveled, no doubt from sleep, and she wondered briefly what men did about cowlicks in the year 900. Did they even know? Did they even have mirrors that far back? 

He tilted his head back, craning his neck to the sky.

“Do ya think it’s still there?” he asked, his hand reaching up gingerly. 

Sylvie took a step toward him, her eyes following his. The sun was beginning to rise and the sky was a beautiful mixture of orange and pink. She wasn’t sure how to answer the question, what ‘it’ even was. She still had a hard time believing anything might have been there at all. 

Even if there was a man standing beside her that was all the real proof she needed.

“I don’t know,” she replied, truthfully. 

She looked down toward the ground, eyes scanning for something, anything that she could toss up. A futile effort, maybe, but she had to try something. She found a scattering of acorns in the grass and bent to grab them, five of them cupped in her palm. She let them roll around in her hand as she tried to remember exactly where she was the night before, where she had landed when Finan appeared.

“What’re ya doin’?” he asked. 

Sylvie pressed her lips together as she narrowed her eyes at the patch of sky above her.

“Well, if it is open, these shouldn’t come back,” she reasoned. “Right?”

The Irishman’s brow furrowed, his arms crossing against his chest as he looked at the acorns in Sylvie’s hand, then up toward the sky and then finally settling on Sylvie. He shrugged his shoulders as he bobbed his head back and forth, “Alright, go on- try it.”

 _This is so stupid_.

But Sylvie powered through even if she happened to agree with the cynical voice in the back of her head, and when she felt like she might be in the right spot, she opened her hand and tossed the acorns into the sky as high as she possibly could. 

For a moment, they seemed to disappear from sight, up among the branches and the leaves. She held her breath, wondering if maybe whatever it was that brought Finan here was still there, hovering above them. But then one landed at her feet and then another. Two of them even pelted Sylvie in the shoulder just for the extra sting of it. Every single one had fallen back down to the earth. She heard a slight chuckle and turned to find Finan laughing softly. He stopped almost immediately upon being caught but there was still a smile there. She returned the gesture in spite of herself. 

“This isn’t funny,” she said, though laughter laced her otherwise pointed tone.

“It’s downright terrifyin’,” he agreed, smile broadening. “But it was nice to see ya try-” 

\--

“I think I need to eat something. Are you hungry? I can make us breakfast.”

Sylvie was moving through the kitchen toward the refrigerator feeling very grateful for the massive food shop she did the day before, especially now that she had more than just herself to worry about. She pulled open the door, the flash of cold chilling her skin as her eyes scanned the shelves. She wasn’t much of a cook, manageable mostly and open to trying new things, but it wasn’t a natural skill for her. Breakfast, though- that was one meal she had perfected in her adult life. 

“Aye, I could eat,” Finan replied.

A quiet fell over the kitchen as Sylvie went to work gathering ingredients, deciding at the last minute to pull out a bowl of fresh strawberries on top of the eggs and bacon and grated gruyere already piled up in her arms. It wasn’t exactly an English breakfast but it was a dish her mother made for her when she was a kid and it had always soothed her. And she figured that was something they both needed in that moment. 

The frying pan was sizzling with the bacon and all her eggs were cracked into a glass bowl. She spared him a glance as she worked her fork through the mixture, scrambling the egg and gruyere with a little bit of salt and pepper. Finan was hovering near the island, resting his forearms against the butcher block as he stared down at his hands. He was fidgeting with a silver ring wrapped around his index finger and there was a stillness to him that surprised her.

“I know this is probably an extremely stupid question but, are you okay?”

He looked up, somewhat startled it seemed, from his reverie. 

“Yeah, alright,” he shrugged before a huff of laughter fell from his lips. “Thinkin’ maybe I’ve gotten myself into worse before and I’ve managed-”

Sylvie looked at him, befuddled.

“Yeah, _that_ makes me want to ask you so many questions.”

He barked out a laugh as he straightened his back and she could see the pull of her tee shirt across his shoulders as she crossed over to the stove. She had to do something about clothing for him. Something that not only fit but made him fit in. Something that didn’t make him look like he bought the last available tee shirt at the Janelle Monáe concert, regardless of the size. 

“I just feel like if I were you, seemingly stuck in a completely different time, I’d be freaking out,” she said. A silence settled in and she cringed at how deafening it felt. “Shit, I’m sorry-” 

“Did ya want me to panic?” he asked after a moment, offering her a bemused glance. “‘Cause I could. Fairly easily, I reckon’, considerin’ _I do_ seem to be a bit stuck. But that wouldn’t do either of us much good, would it?”

“No,” she sighed as she turned back toward the stove. “Probably not.”

She poked at the bacon with a fork before turning on the next burner to get the eggs going. She reached for a flat spatula before pouring the mixture in slowly, pushing them around as they started to cook, and shimmying the pan slightly to even them out. The trick was to keep stirring them, pushing them around to keep them fluffy. A trick her mother taught her a long time ago.

“Besides, yer bein’ generous enough,” he continued, and it was like she could hear his smile. “Ya don’t need a strange man raisin’ a fuss in yer home.”

She was grateful he couldn’t see her face as a flush crept into her cheeks. Even if there was something to his words that brought a tightness to her chest. 

“Actually, we should talk about that,” she said, brandishing the spatula as she spoke. “You being here, in this time, is really weird, right? It’s weird for you, it’s weird for me- and it’s going to be _really_ weird for the rest of the folks around here if they find out who you really are. So, you know, if you feel comfortable, I think staying here is the safest option for you. If anyone got their hands on that recording, I feel like you’d be all over the news in a second- and I don’t know what would happen to you-” 

Sylvie swallowed as she turned to face him. “Things in 2019 are really different, Finan. As a people, we’ve made incredible progress. Some of it in a really good way, and well, some of it not so much. But you- you’re an anomaly.”

“I feel like that might be a compliment,” he chuckled, though there was a hint of something in his eyes that meant he was taking her words seriously.

“You’re unexpected,” she said softly. “And sometimes we have a habit of taking the magic out of something new to us.”

“I thought ya didn’t believe in magic,” he countered, a knowing glance flickering across his features.

“I didn’t,” she said, laughing in spite of herself. “But maybe now I do.”

\--

“Oh, you can just put all that in the dishwasher-” 

Finan paused, his arms filled with the dishes from breakfast, an offer to help clean up that she wasn’t allowed to decline according to the Irishman. Not after the joy she apparently brought into his life by introducing him to strawberries. If Sylvie was being honest with herself, and of course, she never really was- the way his mouth curved around the berries, the way he licked his lips when he was finished- it was borderline joy for her, too. _I am a mess._

“Sylvie, I dunno what that is,” he said, in exasperation.

“Right- right, of course,” she replied, nodding her head, clearly distracted by the image still floating in her head. “Um- come here-” 

She reached with a soapy hand to unlatch the dishwasher. She was rinsing the frying pans clean and up to her elbows in dishwater. She gestured to the appliance with a tilt of her head. There were already a few dishes and utensils inside from dinner the night before. 

“This thing washes our dishes for us,” she explained. “It connects to the water line and we put in the soap and in like, an hour, it’s all done.”

“What is that if not magic?” he asked, perplexed. 

She laughed. “You could look at it that way, I guess.”

“Ya guess,” Finan mocked, shaking his head. “Ya don’t have to wash yer dishes, ya got this thing that starts it’s own fire to cook yer food, _and_ this big box here keeps everythin’ cold- _That_ is magic.”

“Well, it’s science, actually,” she laughed. “But uh, we can YouTube that.”

She reached for the plates in his arms and one by one loaded them into the dishwasher, amused by the indignant look on his face. He watched her curiously as she arranged everything, his body hovering, his palm braced against the counter. Once it was full, she dug under the sink for a pod, plopped it into the trap and turned it on. When it roared to life, Finan took a startled step back, eyeing the appliance warily. She couldn’t help but giggle.

“Thank you for helping me clean up,” she said.

His eyes lingered on the dishwasher for a moment before he turned his attention back to Sylvie and a cheeky sort of grin played at his lips. “Ya made me a feast, ‘twas the least I could do after how kind you’ve been.”

“Hm, that’s true,” she teased, wiping her hands on the dish towel. “Of all the yards to magically appear in, you _really_ did get lucky with mine-” 

His grin broadened and she noted the little lines that crinkled at the corners of his eyes. 

“Aye, seems I did,” he replied.

Sylvie had been battling with a variety of emotions since her arrival to Cookham. Grief and sadness and betrayal and fear. A little excitement at her new adventure lingered deep in her bones, but it was hard to pluck it out as she waded through the darkness she’d felt since losing her grandmother, since losing Ben. She had hoped Cookham would bring back a little bit of lightness.

Finan felt light. 

And beyond all reasonable thought, knowing full well just how incredibly insane everything about this was, she found herself wanting to hold on to that.

She crossed her arms against her chest, studying the Irishman with an inquisitive look.

“We should probably get you clothing that actually fits,” she said, finally.

He glanced down at himself, his hands tugging at the hem of the tee shirt.

“I was hopin’ ya might say that,” he laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are there t-shirts in existence to fit Finan's broad ass shoulders?? Tune in next time!!


	4. how does one explain the history of boxers vs. briefs?

“So ya bathe- in a _closet_?”

Finan poked his head inside the glass shower enclosure in the guest bathroom, a jack and jill that connected both of the spare bedrooms. He looked distrustful of the space, his brow furrowed as he glanced up at the shower head. Sylvie leaned against the vanity, arms crossed against her chest as she watched him continue with his inspection.

“Well, we call it a shower,” she said. “And it’s great. It’s gonna change your life.”

The corner of his mouth quirked as he looked to her with a skeptical glance.

“I swear!”

“So, what- ya don’t take baths in 2019?” he asked.

She laughed. “No- we do. Some of us just like this instead. I have a tub in my bathroom? I mean- if you’d prefer that-”

Finan shook his head, “This is fine. I suppose I oughta learn how this works.”

“Here-” 

She crossed to where he stood, chewing on the inside of her cheek as she fiddled with the knobs, the whoosh of water coming from the showerhead causing Finan to take a step back. His body brushed up against hers and she turned to look up at him, realizing just how close they were. She wanted to reach out and brush her fingers against the still fresh scrape above his eyebrow from the night before but flexed her hand at her side, instead. She could see the delicate creases around his eyes and the way his lips parted slightly as she shifted, reaching into the shower to test the temperature. 

“It’s a little hot,” she warned. “If you wanna try it-”

He let his eyes linger on her as he mimicked her actions, reaching to feel the water. She watched as both their hands lingered under the water, his looking massive compared to hers. He wriggled his fingers and he let out a low chuckle.

“This’ll do,” he told her. 

“Great,” Sylvie said, only just now realizing she was holding her breath. She offered him a sort of half-smile as she took a step back, shaking the water from her hand before wiping it at the hem of her shirt. _Classy_. “Um- the body wash is that blue bottle there and the shampoo and conditioner are the tall white ones-”

Finan sighed. “‘Is this just a lot of different soaps?”

She wrinkled her nose, “Yeah? Your skin and your hair really need different kinds of washing. I mean even your face needs something special but that’s probably too advanced to even consider right now and your skin is kind of amazing for someone who existed before Vitamin C serum so I’m sure you’re fine but-”

“Sylvie?”

“Yes?”

“I should, erm, get in there-”

She felt her skin flush.

“Right,” she laughed, shaking her head. “Skincare is a topic of conversation for another day. Wash your, um, body with the blue one and your hair with the shampoo _first_ and the conditioner _second_. Your towel is hanging up there- and you know, if you need anything-”

But she was already taking awkward steps backwards toward the guest bedroom she had assigned Finan, thinking that it would be real fucking helpful if another portal opened up behind her and swallowed her whole. 

But the Irishman was chuckling softly, quietly, as he rid himself of the too-tight tee shirt she had given him and she found herself lingering in the doorway as he lifted the shirt over his head, the ripple of his back muscles rendering her legs useless to continue moving. But there was a smattering of something that tore her focus from the definition of his shoulders, and when she narrowed her eyes, she noticed the faded but noticeable scarring- and she frowned when she realized it looked like lashings. She sighed inwardly as she moved to shut the door, leaving it slightly ajar in case he needed anything.

Was that one of the “worse things” he had gotten himself into? 

She tugged at her hair tie, letting her chin length hair fall loose around her face. Whatever it was, it wasn’t exactly her business. He wasn’t some museum exhibit for her to study and understand. 

She let out a deep breath as she crouched at the foot of the bed, glancing down at the shopping bags that littered the floor around her feet. She had meant to take just a quick jaunt to Marlow, stop into Sainsbury’s for some basics, maybe a decent pair of shoes- but she walked by a boutique on High Street and felt compelled. It didn’t help that she had a decent pile of money in her checking account she hadn’t touched since her inheritance cleared. And the idea of getting Finan into a proper pair of denim was too good to pass up. _The things those sweatpants exposed_ -

“How often did ya say ya did this?”

Sylvie looked up, befuddled by his question. His voice was loud to compete with the sound of the shower and it echoed off the tiled walls. She could see the steam as it trickled in through the still slightly ajar door and into the bedroom.

“Um- almost every day,” she called back, rifling through the one bag she had managed from Sainsbury’s, socks and undershirts, toiletries, a few things she thought he could sleep in and the boxers and boxer briefs she had picked up, not knowing what the hell he would prefer, and not exactly wanting to even have that conversation with him. “Why? Is bathing not a regular thing for you?”

“I didn’t say that!”

There was an exasperation in Finan’s voice that caused her to chuckle as she started to lay out pieces for him on the bed, the bed meticulously made she had to note. She wondered if he had even slept under the covers. But she tried to imagine how she would feel if she were the one to land in a different time- how nervous and shaken and confused she would be. How utterly insane everyone would think she was- how quickly she’d probably be called a witch and burned at the stake. Maybe she wouldn’t exactly get comfortable at first, either. 

After a few minutes, she heard the water stop and the glass door open.

She bent over to pull out a few of the things she purchased from Hewett’s, the men’s shop that caught her attention. She tried to stay simple, picking out shirts and jeans that wouldn’t be too overwhelming for him. She had seen the clothing he arrived in, the loose fitting trousers and the long tunic- the boots that laced up mid-calf. Simple was good.

“That was somethin’-”

Sylvie looked up, a pack of boxer briefs still in her hand, to find Finan leaning in the doorway of the bathroom, his forearm resting against the door jam while his other hand held onto the towel draped dangerously low on his hips. She averted her gaze away from the way the water droplets clung to his bare skin, flushed and slightly pink from the hot water, and the way his abs contracted as he adjusted his hold on the towel.

_His eyes are up there you creep!_

“See? I told you,” she said, doing her best to focus above the neckline when she remembered she was holding his underwear in her hands. Her eyes widened just slightly as she dropped the pack on the bed. 

“Is that all for me?” he asked, his gaze settling on the small pile of clothing.

“Yeah, I wasn’t sure what you’d like, and I was a little iffy on sizing for some things, so, I bought a bunch of stuff and we can just return what doesn’t work.”

He tightened the towel around his waist before reaching for one of the tee shirts she purchased, a simple heather grey with a pocket on the breast. She had made a serious sizing guestimate based on the shirt she let him borrow but she was pleased it looked to be about right. He gave an approving nod before he looked over to Sylvie.

“Thank ya- for all this,” he said, scratching at the nape of his neck. “I dunno if there’s a way I can really repay ya, but I’ll try.”

She waved her hand, her cheeks feeling a rush of heat.

“It’s nothing,” she said. “Seriously. I’m happy to do it.”

And when he smiled, she found herself smiling right back- the gesture having become somehow contagious. She knew that the reality of it all was maddening but she couldn’t help but find some strange little comfort in it, too. At least there was someone to share this absurdity with, right? 

“I’ll let you get dressed- I’ve got some work to do in the yard, anyway, and-”

“Would you-” Finan paused as he picked up the pack of briefs. “Maybe- tell me what some of this is before you go?”

\--

Sylvie adjusted the rim of her baseball cap as she rested back on her heels, settling in beside the last patch of flowers that needed her attention. She made quick work of picking up most of the stray branches strewn across the yard, dumping them into a pile near the fire pit, before finally mustering up the courage to contend with her grandfather’s prized garden paths. They had been his pride and joy, and when he passed, Julianna took on the task as a form of therapy, her way of staying close to him. She even went as far as hiring a landscaper to care for the garden while she was in hospice, a cost well worth it she had said, to preserve them.

Her heart felt tight as she remembered the first spring she was old enough to help her grandfather. George was careful and patient with the nine year old Sylvie, offering words of advice on how best to handle each flower. It was one of her favorite things to do when she visited in the spring and summer months, always excited to see any possible growth from the flowers she helped tend. She had loved the violets the most, the pretty purple flowers lining the walk that led to the wood working studio in the back. 

She closed her eyes for a moment, thinking back to the last summer she had with both of her grandparents. It was her first year going freelance, and she was scared shitless. George had been so sure, so supportive- he had gone into business for himself, after all, and it had worked out just fine. He expected nothing less for his granddaughter, and when she was too anxious and panicked about the pitches she sent editors, he sent her to the garden to tend the wisteria.

And somehow, the battle to train the vines was enough to distract her and soothe her all at the same time. Maybe that was what she needed right now, she thought.

She leaned forward, attempting to gingerly pull out the stray twigs and leaves that had infiltrated the delphinium’s delicate petals. She was wearing an old pair of gardening gloves, the fingers painted with smudges of dirt and grass stains, and her knees were already sporting similar strokes. But she was intent on cleaning up the after effects of the night’s storm. With a huff of breath, she rose up on her knees, using one hand to prop herself up in the dirt as she ducked under a vine of wisteria to straighten its metal support stake.

“Y’alright down there?”

Sylvie shot up, head knocking into a support cage. “Ow-” she groaned as she hunched her shoulders and backed herself out from underneath the plant, knees dragging dirt onto the stone path. Finan was crouching down, concern flickering across his face. She rubbed her palm at the sore spot at the back of her head but she felt more embarrassed than anything else.

“Sorry- did I scare ya?” he asked, reaching his hand out for her to take.

“No- no, I’m fine,” she laughed as they both stood up, Sylvie grateful for his support as she righted herself. She brushed some of the dirt from her knees before pulling off her gloves and sticking them in the back pocket of her denim shorts. “My mum always joked I had a bit of a hard head, anyway, so-” 

But when she finally looked up, she couldn’t help but trail off. “Oh, _wow_ -” 

He looked _good_. She had left him to his own devices after the tragically awkward conversation they had where she explained to him that people wore underwear (mostly) in 2019. That some preferred the feel of boxer briefs over boxers, and no, she had no idea why they were called that, but they were, and did he think he’d have a preference? 

It had left her feeling stupid and flushed and irritated with her own innate level of thirst.

But, she had to admit she had been curious to see what he would eventually settle on. Not the underwear- the actual clothing. Though, to the surprise of no one, it was probably both. 

“Wow?” he repeated, brow hitched, and she could have kicked herself for even uttering the word, as his eyes narrowed at her curiously. “Is that good?”

“Oh, um- it just means I was surprised- but yeah, in this case it was the good kind of surprise-” 

She tugged at the rim of her baseball hat for want of something to do with her hands. There wasn’t really a point in lying, was there? She never had much of a poker face. She liked the way he looked. She liked the slim cut of the black jeans and yes, there was a certain level of appropriate snugness to the heather grey tee shirt he chose to wear and she appreciated it. She had working eyes, after all. 

The black leather boots she had picked up completed the look, the jeans tucked in slightly at the ankle. Really, shopping for Finan was no different to the years she spent dressing mannequins at Urban Outfitters in high school. Except, you know, it was very different because of the actual human man that he was.

“Yeah?” he asked, and she was surprised to see a faint hint of apprehension in his face. 

“You look very 2019,” she assured him with a smile. “No one would ever know otherwise.”

“Ya seem to have some interestin’ ideas about clothing in this time,” he chuckled, raking his fingers through his beard. “But I figure I could wear this under my leathers if the time comes-”

“If the time comes for what?” she asked, tilting her head.

“Battle, of course,” he said as if it was ludicrous she even had to ask.

Sylvie blinked, “Oh- yeah, so about that- we don’t really- well, the um, average person does not walk around with a sword and a dagger here. I mean, I’m sure _some_ people might but we’d consider them a little weird and probably avoid them.” 

Finan narrowed his eyes at her. “And if there is an attack?” he asked.

“Uh, we’d call the police?” she said, hooking her thumbs in the belt loops at the back of her jean shorts. “But this isn’t like, Braveheart. People don’t just attack villages anymore-”

_At least not villages in countries like England or the good ol’ US of A._ But it was far too soon to get into imperialism and Middle Eastern politics, wasn’t it? Her brain probably couldn’t handle it at this point. So, she shrugged and offered him a wide smile instead. 

“Anyway, I promise your armor is safe in the laundry room.”

Finan considered her with a thoughtful stare.

“That doesn’t seem right,” he said, shaking his head. “Men love to fight- for some of us, it’s in our blood-” 

“Oh, well, it’s different now,” Sylvie said, though she did not miss the way he included himself in that statement. “I don’t know if I even know how to explain it. I’m gonna have to find you a documentary or something.”

“A what?”

He had asked some variation of that question so often in the short time they were together that when he said it this time, he offered her a wrinkle of a smile, as if he knew just how exasperating it was. She figured he probably felt as overwhelmed asking as she did answering his questions. 

“It’s like a recording-” she said, with a wave of her hand, knowing she would have way more fun explaining the advancements in media and entertainment than the way governments controlled militaries. “About things that have really happened- an analysis of an event or a time or a place. Imagine, I don’t know, Alfred the Great’s chronicle but with the people who contributed to it talking about it for everyone to see and understand-”

“How do ya know about the King’s chronicle?” he asked, hitching a brow.

At this, Slyvie felt her skin grow warm. “Well, I was up half the night trying to answer your question about how the toilet was invented and I thought about when you said you were from, so I did some digging and well- he _was_ the King during your time wasn’t he? I know he died young but-” 

“Aye, he was King,” Finan nodded, and that flicker of a smile seemed to grow. “His son’s King now. Edward. A runt of a boy but he’s alright.”

“Oh! I saw something about him! Edward the Elder, right?” Sylvie asked, feeling rather proud of herself for her research. 

“The Elder?” the Irishman repeated. “He’s a boy King if I’ve ever seen one-”

“Oh-” She pressed her lips together as she considered this. “Right- I mean, there’s gotta be some rule to all this, telling you things that you technically haven’t experienced yet- but if you’re here to stay it probably doesn’t matter, right?”

Finan sighed, his brow furrowing slightly as he looked at her. 

“Hey, why don’t we have lunch?” she suggested.

\--

“Has this house been in yer family for long?”

They were sitting outside on the patio, Sylvie’s feet propped up on the wrought iron chair, knees to her chest as she leaned her head back, eyes taking in the scale of her home. They had been calling it a cottage most of her life, but the two story home was frankly a little bit larger than one would imagine a cottage to be. She twisted her neck to look back to Finan. Empty plates scattered with crumbs sat on the bistro table before them, their lunch a salad and some sandwiches she had slapped together. Finan had been especially intrigued by the tomatoes she’d sliced. 

“I’m the fourth generation, I think,” she said before she reconsidered. “Fifth, technically. My mum never wanted much to do with Cookham but my great-great-grandparents were the ones to build this place- It was mostly farmland, then.” 

“Ya ownin’ land like this-” He paused, brow furrowing. “Ya say many people do now?”

“If they can manage, yeah,” she replied, nodding her head. “Technically, anyone can buy property- you don’t need to be a noble or royalty or anything like that. Though, with the way the market is, you kinda have to be as rich as one-” 

“Hm.” He hummed the word, his eyes drifting back toward the cottage. 

“I was left the house by my grandmother,” she said, in hopes of clarifying that she was not exactly as rich as anyone royal. Far from it. “Did they do inheritances back in the 9th century? You know, if someone passes- they can leave property behind?”

He nodded.

“I never would’ve been able to afford a place like this otherwise,” she sighed. “When I lived in New York- God, I shared a tiny one bedroom loft with Ben and the rent was-” 

But she paused, waving her hand, and Finan looked at her curiously. 

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “It just feels a little surreal, to be honest. I spent so much time here growing up, and now- it’s mine. Just mine.” 

“I’m sorry about yer loss,” he said quietly. 

A quirk of a smile tugged at the corner of her lips, knowing he had no idea just how much loss she had experienced in the last six months. “Me too. She was incredible.”

“It’s hard to be without yer family,” he told her. 

Sylvie hadn’t considered this. He hadn’t mentioned more than the men he had been traveling with. She felt a twist in her stomach when she realized he might have lost his wife or his children and she stumbled over her words. “Do you- um, is there a family back in your- back in 900?”

There was a flicker of something that flashed across his face before a small smile won out.

“Not like ya might be thinkin’. Just my Lord and my men- but they’re like brothers to me.”

“That sounds like family,” she offered with a shrug of her shoulder. “As someone who has officially lost everyone but my own brother- you find family in other places.” 

Finan shifted in his seat, his hands tugging at the denim on his thighs as he settled into a more comfortable position, his body facing hers more directly. She wasn’t wrong about how modern he looked, a quick glance never betraying who he really was. But there was a slight discomfort there if she looked closely, an unease in all the newness he had to get used to.

“Aye, ya do,” he agreed and his smile began to reach his eyes. “And sometimes ya find them when ya least expect to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya girl needs a DRINK because she is THIRSTY.


	5. the irish warrior meets 2019

**Finan’s Third (does the few hours he landed in the backyard count?) Day in 2019  
** **10:01 AM**

“Are ya _torturin’_ someone in there?”

Finan hovered in the doorway of the laundry room, his fingers pulling on his earlobe as Sylvie folded some towels. It had been a relatively uneventful morning and although she was dying to know every little detail of his life, she also knew precisely none of it was her business. So, she resumed her original to-do list before he fell from the sky. The washing machine was at the end of its cycle, some linens and dirty laundry she had collected in the last week. It was an obnoxious old thing, likely needed replacing, and currently shaking violently. The Irishman went to take a step inside, but his hands flew up in a defensive position as the machine gave a particularly violent lurch. 

Sylvie brought a towel to her face to hide the laughter threatening to escape.

“It’s a washing machine,” she managed, her chest heaving with quiet laughter. “It washes our clothes for us-”

“Why’s it look like it’s gonna attack?” he asked, his lip curling.

“Because it’s old,” Sylvie said, peering at it from behind the towel. “It’s uh- spinning the clothes really fast to help wring out all the water.”

“Is there anythin’ ya still do by hand?” Finan asked, baffled, his eyes following the spin of the cycle in the little window, and she scoffed at the hint of judgement to his tone.

“Excuse me?” Sylvie pointed to the pile of perfectly folded linens (except for the rather lumpy attempt at folding the fitted sheet, her nemesis in all things cleaning). “I just folded all of those!”

The machine gave another loud thud causing Finan to jump back and Sylvie could not hide her laughter this time, a wide smile pulling at her lips as she leaned forward, hand pulling at the little latch to open the door. She had learned in the last week that sound was the one that signified it was done.

“So, now all of this goes into the dryer-”

“Let me guess,” Finan said quickly, from where he was leaning against the wall. “It dries yer clothing?”

“Well _someone_ is catching on quickly,” she replied with a wink. 

**2:34 PM**

Click.

Click. Click.

Sylvie’s left eye twitched.

Click. Click. 

Finan sat in the living room, perched on the edge of the box plaid wingback chair in the back corner. He was staring at the little lamp on the side table beside him, his fingers toying with the ball chain drop cord. He was about to pull at it one more time before Slyvie cleared her throat loudly. She was leaning against the door jam in the space between the kitchen and the living room, her eyes intent on the Irishman.

“It works,” she declared, holding her hands out. “You’ve figured it out!”

**6:15 PM**

The fresh aroma of rosemary and sage filled the kitchen, Sylvie a bit generous in her seasoning as she continued preparing dinner. She hovered over the stovetop, one hand in a bright orange oven mitt while the other all but covered the salmon fillets in herbs and spices. She gave the skillet a little shimmy before moving to crouch down in front of the oven, turning on the light to check on the fingerling potatoes roasting. 

“Now, this feels familiar,” Finan said.

Sylvie looked up to find him standing over her, his body leaning against the countertop, one ankle crossed over the other. He took a deep breath, his eyes fluttering shut and she could see the rise of his chest as he inhaled. It was the most comfortable she had seen him since he arrived. She rose to her feet, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

“What does?” she asked, eyebrows raised. “A woman cooking for you?”

Finan’s eyes snapped open.

“I said no such thing,” he grumbled, though there was a hint of pink to his cheeks.

“I’m having a hard time imagining you behind a stove,” she told him brightly. 

He scrunched his nose as he considered her and she wondered if he knew just how easy it was to bait him. But Sylvie found she couldn’t help it. She liked seeing him all ruffled.

“I cooked some,” he said after a moment. “When yer on the road, and all ya got is whatever game ya can find in the wood, ya end up knowin’ how to manage even the most undesirable kinds of meat-”

 _Gross_. 

She narrowed her eyes at him.

“And when you weren’t _on the road_?” she asked.

“Aye, well, I lived in the Main Hall,” he shrugged his shoulders though there was a gleam of something behind his eyes. “It’d have been rude not to let the kitchen staff handle most of the cookin’.”

“I knew it,” Sylvie laughed, poking at his chest.

His hand wrapped around her wrist and the touch of his skin against hers momentarily stilled her. He smiled playfully, “Ah, but our cook was a lovely _man_ named Aldfrid. It has been a long while since a woman has cooked for me, Sylvie.”

**Finan’s Fourth Day in 2019  
** **11:02 AM**

“ _What’s-”_

But Finan’s voice barely carried over the vacuum as Sylvie worked her way down the upstairs hallway, the vintage kilim runner a magnet for dust. He lingered at the top of the staircase, his hand curled around the banister as he watched her curiously. Curiosity seemed to be his only mood lately. Well, curiosity, distrust, and general displeasure at every single thing she introduced him to. But she figured she couldn’t really blame him.

“What?” she yelled back.

“That _thing_ -” he called again, pointing at the vacuum. 

“ _Oh_ -” Sylvie nodded, reaching to flip the switch and the machine quieted down. “Uh, sorry- I’m vacuuming.”

“Yer _what_?”

“I’m cleaning the floors,” she continued. “This machine, like, sucks up the dirt? And when you have rugs everywhere it’s really helpful in picking up dust and stuff. I’m sorry, it’s probably so loud -”

“S’alright,” he said, taking the step toward her. “Do ya need any help?”

“With this?”

“Or anythin’, really,” he continued, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I can’t keep watchin’ ya busy yerself while I sit around.”

“But you’re a guest,” Sylvie said. Even though they both knew his time here wasn’t exactly temporary, it wasn’t like he asked to be transported here. “And you know, you’re-”

“A bit outta place?” he offered, and there was a hint of something sad behind his smile.

“No,” she said softly, stepping forward to lessen the space between them. “You’re just not obligated to earn your keep here.”

There was a little huff of laughter that passed through his lips and he reached to rub at the back of his neck, his gaze settling on Sylvie in a way that brought a warmth to her skin. “I’ve a feelin’ not everyone in this time is like ya, Sylvie.”

“I-” she hesitated, brow wrinkling. “Like what?”

He grinned as he shook his head. “Come on, show me how to use the dirt thing-”

**7:02 PM**

“You’re telling me you didn’t have _any_ theater back then?”

Sylvie was standing in the middle of the den, her hand curled around the remote control, staring at Finan. He was staring back at her with a raised brow, and he shook his head with a quick shake of his shoulders. She screwed up her face in disgust.

“God, the Church is such shit,” Sylvie said.

A quiet gasp passed thru Finan’s lips before a low chuckle followed. She couldn’t help but like the sound of it, the timbre of it hitting her deep in her bones. But she quickly returned her attention back to the matter at hand.

She flicked on the television, the channel defaulting to the last one she watched: Bravo. 

Immediately, a rerun of The Real Housewives of Atlanta popped up and Sylvie watched wistfully for a moment as Nene Leakes lunged at another one of the housewives, the camera crew rushing to break them up. She smirked. There was no debating that Atlanta was the best in the franchise. But one look at the horrified look on Finan’s face had her switching the channel. 

“Sorry-” she swallowed. “Hold on, let’s find something educational-”

“What exactly am I lookin’ at?” he asked, voice quiet. “Is- is that real people in there?”

Her eyes widened. “Oh my god, _no_. No- it’s like the recordings I showed you on my phone. I mean, they’re all real people, but it’s like they’re putting on a show for us-”

He rocked back on his heels as he turned his attention away from Sylvie and back to the television, his attention momentarily distracted by the Civil War documentary she had stumbled upon. She watched him as she tried to think of the best way to explain it all. She really wished she had Tess here, her Ph.D at least prepared her on how to explain things. The most explaining Sylvie ever did was in those “10 Things” articles she loathed writing but almost always got picked up by her editors. 

“We have a lot of different forms of entertainment,” she continued. “Like bards maybe? Storytellers- they play a character, or not- actually, sometimes you see depictions of real people just going about their business-”

“Well, what’s entertainin’’ about that?”

_Touché, Finan._

“Art is subjective?” she offered, shrugging her shoulders. 

“And ya watch a lot of this?” he asked, inching closer to the television. He hovered close to the screen, his fingers grazing against the display. He tapped gently, a frown forming on his features. 

“I mean not like a ton,” she said, though she knew that was a lie. She was a freelance writer working from home- she watched so much television she could probably name every single episode of Chopped. But he didn’t need to know that. “But yeah, there’s some good stuff-”

“Will ya show me somethin’ ya like?”

**8:30 PM**

“Wait, wait- this is the best part-”

Sylvie passed the popcorn bowl back to Finan before reaching for the remote to turn up the volume. After an embarrassing amount of time scrolling through Netflix and Hulu and Amazon Prime trying to find something to watch, Sylvie decided she might as well invite him to the world of Patrick Swayze. Frankly, there was no knowing Sylvie without knowing her love and adoration of Patrick Swayze. There was never going to be a better man in Hollywood.

Something she voraciously declared as she pressed play on her number one Patrick Swayze pick: _Dirty Dancing_ . She had briefly contemplated _To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar_ but figured that was a movie for a Finan more exposed to 2019.

“Didn’t ya say that about the bit on the log?” he asked, though his eyes did not leave the television set, his hand reaching for a handful of popcorn. 

“I did,” she admitted before taking another sip wine. “But _this_ is really the best part-”

Baby was admitting her feelings for Johnny, the two of them arguing about Baby’s courage and Johnny’s nothingness. It was filled with a tension that still somehow shook her whenever she watched it. She crossed her legs, letting her elbows rest on her knees as she leaned forward, chin propped up by her hands. 

“Do ya like to dance?” he asked curiously, as Baby breathlessly asked Johnny to dance with her.

Sylvie twisted her neck to look at Finan and smiled. “I love it.”

**10:30 PM**

She really did know better than to go through a bottle of red wine after 8pm.

But just two and a half glasses later and she was sleeping peacefully on the edge of the sofa, head resting against the arm rest and her legs tucked underneath her. At least, she had been, until strong arms lifted her from her spot and cradled her tightly. She hummed softly as she curled up against the warm body holding her and shifted her arms so that they draped around broad shoulders. A contented sigh passed through her lips as hints of freshly washed laundry and eucalyptus invaded her nostrils.

Wasn’t there eucalyptus body wash in the guest bathroom?

Sylvie’s eyes opened slowly.

That warm, hard body she had been so content to curl up against belonged to Finan and he was currently climbing the staircase toward the second floor with her draped in his arms like she weighed nothing. She stifled a yawn as he reached the top landing and she could feel his chest shake with quiet laughter. There was that heat again, warming up her skin, a reaction only he seemed to bring out of her lately.

“Yer alright,” he soothed quietly. 

“I fell asleep,” she said, lamely, her brain still muddled from the wine.

“Ya did,” he told her, his foot pushing open her bedroom door. “Ya ended up a bit twisted on the sofa, I figured yer bed would be better-”

“That was smart,” she replied in a whisper, offering him a sort of hazy closed mouth smile.

She felt her body settle onto the mattress as Finan laid her down and she made a mental note to thank her past self for not making her bed as the Irishman pulled the covers over her. She tucked her arm under the pillow as she succumbed to another yawn, her eyes barely managing to keep open. But she did not like when his arms left her and she reached for him briefly, hand connecting with his.

Even in the darkness of her bedroom she could see the way he hesitated, his body turning back toward her for a moment.

“I’m happy you’re here,” she said softly.

And even though he did not respond, she could swear she saw a smile stretch at his lips. Then, with a tight squeeze of her hand, Finan left her to fall back into sleep. A sleep which came quickly, mind fuzzy with Patrick Swayze, a robust malbec, and the drunken happiness of being totally oblivious to the words that had come out of her mouth. 

**3:01 AM**

Sylvie squirmed, a breathless moan catching in her throat as hot kisses trailed along her inner thigh. She arched her back, a heat pooling low in her belly as the grip around her hips tightened, fingers digging into her skin roughly, no doubt leading to bruising in the morning and she relished in the thought. Her eyelids fluttered shut, a hiss of breath passing through her lips as she felt teeth nip at her skin. 

“You’re such a tease,” she groaned.

She heard a low chuckle from beneath the covers, his breath tingling against her entrance and shooting a shock of pleasure straight to her core. She knew she would pay for that comment when one hand moved from her hip to the curve of her ass cheek, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he hitched her leg over his shoulder for more access. He let his beard drag along her inner thigh as his lips worked a small path to her entrance, his tongue eliciting a heady moan from her lips. Slyvie gasped as he slid one finger inside of her, then a second, both crooking just slightly and her body twisted in pleasure. She was wonton with need and tilted her head back in quiet ecstasy as his tongue worked in tandem with his fingers, his mouth making easy work of her. 

Her fingers tangled in his thick, dark hair and she tugged at the unruly strands. Something akin to a growl vibrated against her as he buried himself between her thighs. It sent a thrill through her, gooseflesh rising on her skin as she writhed her hips beneath his hold. But he held her steady and the way his hands splayed across her skin made her want them there all the time, as if he was built just to hold and touch her. 

“Oh- yes, no- oh my _god_ ,” she cried out, voice a whimper as he dug his nails into her skin. 

She brought her hand to her mouth, biting at her fingers to keep herself quiet as he let his tongue drag along her delicate skin and she couldn’t help but lift her hips just slightly. He was eager for her, mouth hot against her skin and when his thumb pressed against her clit she felt a wave of pleasure wrack her body. She let her hands wander her own body, fingers teasing at her nipples as his thumb worked circles against her.

She couldn’t help but cry out as her hips began to twitch, her body reaching its peak in a way that left her thoroughly gratified. But he never let her go, his hands holding her to him, his tongue and fingers working at her until she was slack beneath him, chest rising and falling as she tried to steady herself. She took a deep breath, fingers raking through her hair as she laid there beneath the covers, body slick with sweat.

“A tease, ya said?” came a hoarse voice from beneath the covers.

She laughed as she tugged the comforter back, the Irishman looking rather pleased with himself as he rose from between her legs, his skin flush with pink. She reached for him, and the feel of his skin against hers did nothing to soothe the pulsing she still felt between her legs. She hitched her knees around his middle as he pressed down against her, his lips trailing kisses against her collarbone and then the crook of her neck before finally meeting her own lips.

There was something in his kiss that registered differently in Sylvie- maybe it was the feel of his beard against her cheek, or the weight of him against her, but her brain started to question the moment in a way that irritated her. Her brow furrowed as he drew back, his eyes meeting hers with an intensity that threw her. And then suddenly, he wasn’t there at all but standing at her bedside, still dressed, his hand holding hers and she was telling him she was happy he was here.

She woke with a start, her eyes blinking open wide as she realized that it had all been a dream.

An incredibly realistic, incredibly dirty, and incredibly fucking incredible dream about the Irish warrior sleeping just down the hallway from her. _Are you fucking kidding me?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I KNOW. I know, okay? It hurts even me, tbh. 
> 
> Thank you all for being patient as I accidentally skipped a week between updates. But we'll resume a weekly cadence from here on out!
> 
>  **Note:** Hey, it's January 2021 and I missed a whole lot of weeks. Sorry for that! But I am working on this! It's been a crazy few months. <3


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